Knight-Captain Cullen woke gasping, unable to remember the nightmare but still somehow caught within its grip. His heart pounded, his ears rang with the screams of long-dead brothers, and the phantom scent of ash lingered. The worst dreams were the ones that left traces behind even once he'd woken. Unfortunately the worst dreams were not the rarest ones. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Cullen sat on the edge of his bed and willed his heart to slow and his head to clear.
The scent of smoke remained, taunting him.
Knowing he'd sleep no more, Cullen rose and dressed. A faint glow through the drawn curtains hinted at the coming dawn, though he felt he'd hardly slept at all. Sometimes nightmares accounted for that, too. Battling demons and reliving deaths all night—so many deaths, so many demons—brought no rest. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he decided a stamina draught might be a wise addition when he broke his fast, and he sent up an idle prayer for a quiet day.
It wasn't until a terrified recruit barged into his room, babbling about the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter and the Champion of Kirkwall, about the mad mage Anders and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina and the invocation of the Rite of Annulment that Cullen realized it hadn't been a nightmare that had pulled him from sleep.
It had been the demise of the Kirkwall Chantry.
The glow on the horizon was not the sunrise. The smoke in the air was not a dream.
I have seen firsthand how templars' trust and leniency can be rewarded.
Cullen had the recruit help him into his heavy armor. By the time he raced through the halls, he could hear Meredith calling the other templars, screaming epithets of hate and vengeance masked by the words protection and justice.
When she looked his way he nearly flinched at what he saw in her eyes. "Knight-Captain," she snapped. "You will attend me. Send others to rally our forces. The Champion has turned against us and is hard on my heels. We must be prepared to face her when she comes."
Cullen inclined his head. "Is it true? Have you invoked the Rite?"
Meredith's mad eyes narrowed. "It was necessary. A mage killed the Grand Cleric—"
"A Circle mage?" he pressed, already knowing the answer.
Meredith's lips twisted in a snarl bordering on feral. "He was once."
"Knight-Commander…"
Meredith's hand clenched into a fist, and for an instant he expected her to pull her blade on him—perhaps even to kill him then and there. He blinked, unwavering. Behind him, he heard some of his brothers and sisters muttering amongst themselves.
But Meredith did not draw her sword. A mask of something almost like cordiality slammed down over her face instead, curling her lips into a smile even he could see was utterly insincere.
"And the Champion?" he added, gaze never leaving Meredith's face. "She is no Circle mage. She is no mage at all. The Rite does not apply. What do you intend to do with her?"
The false smile stretched wider. "We will… arrest her, of course, Knight-Captain. Question her. Rules must be followed, after all. The law must be upheld. Order must triumph."
He didn't believe her, but still he followed her into the courtyard. Better at her side than locked up himself; he'd be no help to Hawke from a prison cell. As soon as the other templars turned away to gather their fellows and arm themselves for battle, Cullen saw the smile slip from Meredith's face. The glare she sent his way said what her lips would not: his life was forfeit. Even if she had no proof, she sensed his betrayal and he would pay.
Even if we win today, her blade will find my back or my throat or my skull. She will make certain it happens in the heat of battle, when blood is high and memories are short. She will blame Hawke, but I will be just as dead.
"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," Cullen intoned.
Meredith scowled, as though he'd spoken blasphemy.
#
Enough!
Sweat dripped into Cullen's eyes as he fought. He paid it no heed, though with arrows flying all around him he rather wished for his helm. Meredith shouted taunts and curses, her voice hardly recognizable. If any doubt of her madness had persisted, that doubt was done away with every time she opened her mouth.
This is not what the Order stands for.
Whatever magic Meredith's sword commanded brought forth gate guardians and slave statues, twisted creatures of darkness. Cullen's arm was heavy and exhaustion pulled at him, but still he lifted his blade. Again and again and again. Slash and parry, lunge and recover. Hawke shouted; Fenris answered. Amelle sent down a rain of fire, and Cullen clamped down on the instinct to level her with a holy smite. He had to remind himself they were on the same side. You'll have to go through me, he'd said, never thinking Meredith would do it.
"Knight-Captain," Amelle cried over the din, suddenly at his shoulder. He cringed; she was no warrior, and being at his shoulder put her all too near the thick of the battle. "Cullen, do you need healing?"
He shook his head and fought on. Slash and parry, lunge and recover. Again and again and again.
Knight-Commander, step down.
"I will not be defeated!" Meredith growled. "Maker… heed… your humble… servant…"
And then the scream. Cullen knew screams like the one Meredith screamed then, at the end. He'd heard those screams before. He'd screamed those screams before, trapped within Uldred's cage of horrors.
He knew by the tenor of her scream that it was too late.
I relieve you of your command.
As Meredith burned, calcified, was destroyed by her own madness, her own folly, Hawke's eyes met his. She was pale under the blood and gore she wore, her fiery hair lank, her weariness so palpable it made him more tired just looking at her. He hardly recognized her. The world she knew has ended, he thought. The world we all knew is ended. For an instant he saw fear in her eyes, plain as day, and he knew it was him she feared. She feared what he would do. Amelle, staff in hand, panted at Hawke's shoulder, but he did not look away from the Champion, and the Champion did not look away from him.
Duty.
Templars—his brothers and sisters in arms—flooded into the courtyard. Cullen raised his blade, taking a couple of steps backward, and with a barely perceptible nod he gestured toward the gates. Hawke's eyes widened just a trace and the fear disappeared, replaced by understanding and… gratitude, he thought.
He did not lower his sword until Hawke and her companions had disappeared into the smoke and the mist. The courtyard was so silent he could hear his own heart thudding beneath his heavy plate. A piece of the… thing that had been Meredith Stannard broke with a crack and fell to the stones. Cullen shivered, though he was far from cold.
"Knight-Commander," said a voice near his shoulder, pleading, anxious. Futile.
Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, singing songs of other victories. Dashing the back of his hand over his sweating brow, he was unsurprised when it came away bloody. Meredith's blood, he realized. He and the elf and the guard-captain had fought shoulder to shoulder for most of the battle, while Meredith parried and struck and gave as good as she got. Of course her blood had spattered him from head to toe. His ears still echoed with the whistle of arrows—Hawke's arrows, and Varric's; he wondered, just for a moment, what had become of the Starkhaven priest-prince in his white armor. He wondered, just for a moment, if Hawke had killed the mage Anders; his absence during the battle had been conspicuous.
"Knight-Commander," repeated the voice.
The stench of burning flesh and burning lyrium mixed with blood and smoke and ash, reminding him of other battles. Another piece of Meredith cracked and crumbled. She cannot hear you, he wanted to say, but he remained silent.
A third time the voice said, "Knight-Commander." Then it added, "Please, what are we to do?"
"Knight-Commander Meredith walks at the side of the Maker," Cullen said, though the words sounded strange and hollow, like lies in his ears.
"I know," said the voice. Ser Hugh, Cullen realized. Ser Hugh, looking wide-eyed and terrified and somehow sad. "You are acting Knight-Commander now, Ser Cullen. Should we—Knight-Commander, what should we do?"
Stop calling me Knight-Commander, for a start, he didn't say. The young templar was right; the chain of command spoke clearly. Though he imagined the Divine might have choice words for a Knight-Captain who'd actively opposed his Knight-Commander, mad or not. He'd been all but mad once himself, thanks to Uldred and his demons and his crushing cage of desires. He imagined he could teach the Divine a thing or two about madness, if she cared to ask. No time for that. No time for that now. Order must be maintained. The law must be upheld.
The dead must be buried.
Ash tickled his nose, and landed in his hair. Ash and worse. Cullen kept his face carefully still even as his stomach threatened to rebel. The Chantry. The Grand Cleric. Kirkwall.
I have seen firsthand how templars' trust and leniency can be rewarded.
Perhaps Hawke's fear had been well-founded after all. Perhaps she'd been right to wonder what he might do.
Idiot boy. What have you done?
What he'd promised himself he'd do, once, long ago, when he'd first begun to doubt Meredith's grip on her sanity. When the time had come to act quickly, act rightly, he'd done so. Hawke was not the enemy. Even Hawke's mage sister—all mages must be watched—was not the enemy. This battle was done, but he knew, oh he knew, the worst was yet to come.
The Chantry. The Grand Cleric. Kirkwall.
"Report," he said.
#
The tall bronze statues that had once stood to mark the entrance to the chantry had toppled, along with all of their smaller kin. They had crushed the great staircases beneath them, and were half-covered in rubble themselves. Fallen soldiers they were, who'd never seen the enemy approaching. He couldn't blame them; he'd missed the enemy's approach as well. They had all been blind.
And yet the statues had fared better than the rest of the square.
Where once the chantry stood remained only a smoking hole, and vast boulders had crushed the courtyard and all the neighboring buildings. The explosion had vaporized much of the chantry entirely, but enough had fallen down again to cause untold damage, a stone rain of death. If rebuilding was even possible, it would take years. Decades. And some things could never be rebuilt. The countless lives lost were lost forever. Cullen raised a hand to brush ash from his face, and realized the stinging in his eyes was not only from the befouled air.
He knew at once he would find no survivors here, not this close to the wreckage. Snapping a series of brisk orders, he sent all his templars out into the city. "Expand outward in a circle," he ordered. "Look for survivors first. Clear civilians from unstable buildings. Offer aid to anyone who requires it, highborn or low. Stay in pairs, and keep an eye out for trouble."
Trouble meant renegade mages or mage-supporters, though Cullen did not have to speak the words aloud. His templars knew. Trouble always meant the same thing. Now, though, he wondered if trouble might also mean any rogue supporters who still believed Meredith's madness. He could not warn the templars of that, or he'd merely cut off the stem without digging up the roots.
Warningly, he added, "Preserving life is paramount. I will have no more bloodshed, and no more death. As acting Knight-Commander, I revoke the Rite of Annulment. Mages who yield are to be treated with courtesy and given quarters. Comfortable ones. Anyone who defies me will be sent to the deepest cells of the Gallows, and they will stay there until Kirkwall is once again clean and safe. I imagine it will be a very long wait."
One or two templars shifted uneasily; he made note of their names and faces and paired them with men and women he trusted.
Then Cullen broke his own rule and walked the streets of Kirkwall alone. The air was so thick with smoke and ash he was forced to rip a strip of fabric from his uniform and tie it around his face, and even then it was difficult to breathe. His eyes burned and watered, and no amount of blinking brought relief. Soon the fabric mask was damp with sweat and tears.
There were too few people on the streets. Cullen feared it was because of how many had perished. Those who saw him ran the other direction, and he wondered how much harm Meredith's men had done before they made their way to the Gallows.
In the Hightown market a woman approached him, her ash-stained face streaked with sweat and tears and blood from a gash in her forehead. "Please," she begged in a voice rough from screaming, "please, ser, please."
When she reached out to him he saw her hands were raw and bloody, the fingernails all but gone.
"Please, ser, please. Please. Please, I'm not strong enough, ser, and it's the children. Please, ser."
Children had died when the Tower fell. Mage children, some too young even to be proper apprentices. He remembered seeing their bodies afterward, all lined up in one of the dormitories. The white sheets they'd been covered with had done little to hide their smallness, their brokenness. In his cage of despair, Uldred's demons had shown Cullen his own children—children that had never existed, would never exist, though it had felt terribly real at the time—and Cullen had lived their deaths over and over and over.
But this woman's plight was not a demon's pantomime. "I'll help," he said, already all but certain there would be little he could do.
As he'd feared, the woman's house was a wreckage. The chunk of masonry to blame was finely carved, with hints of gilt under the soot. She immediately ran to one corner of the stone and began pulling at it, her bloody hands leaving red stains where she scrabbled at the immovable rock.
"They're in there," the woman said. "The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying? They're crying for me. Ser, can't you hear them? The baby will be so hungry, ser, please. Please, you have to help me. It happened so sudden, ser. We were sleeping. Me in the front room and them in the back, same as always. We were all just sleeping when the crash came. Can't you hear them, ser? Can't you hear them crying?"
But Cullen heard no one crying save the woman with her torn hands and her filthy face and her heartbreak. To soothe her, he tried to move the stone, but it was beyond his strength. Suddenly, the woman stopped, staring at the torn flesh of her hands. "They're dead," she whispered, burying her weeping face in her bloodied palms. "All of them. Aren't they?"
The woman fell to her knees, and her grief was so great he had to turn his face away. He felt like an intruder, a voyeur. Once he would have taken her to the chantry for succor, for respite, for sanctuary.
Elthina would have known what to say.
"They… they walk at the right hand of the Maker," he whispered, his voice breaking.
The woman raised her face. "No," she said, her eyes wide with horror. "The baby's too little to walk. The baby's too little."
Cullen had no words at all, then, but when he offered the woman his hand, she took it, leaning heavily against him. Broken, he thought. What will become of us now?
As he stood there, wondering where to take her, the answer came in the form of one of the girls from The Blooming Rose. The soot on her face did not quite disguise the garish paint, and she was dressed in little more than a houserobe. "I'll take her," the girl said softly. "We're… we're collecting survivors at the Rose. There're rooms there, and food, and wine. I… I daresay she could use a little wine." The prostitute looked lost for a moment, staring past them toward the ruined house. "We have blankets. Everyone needs blankets."
Cullen stared too long before nodding once, sharply. "Thank you," he said. "I'll… I'll tell the others. It is… thank you."
The sky was so dark with soot and smoke Cullen never knew when the sun rose. Perhaps it didn't. Perhaps days passed. Perhaps the sun was dead, lost when the Chantry died. The light from the fires kept the city bright enough, however. He rarely stopped moving. Every now and again he saw his templars giving aid or taking survivors to the Rose or The Hanged Man. He helped them when he could, but mostly he walked alone.
For every person he managed to pull from the rubble, there were three corpses. When he searched the buildings nearest the chantry he found only pieces. This hand was a person, once. It picked flowers, maybe. It caressed a lover's cheek. It raised food to a mouth. Maybe it wrote letters. Certainly its owner dreamed dreams. So many bodies were broken beyond recognition. Heads smashed by falling stone, limbs crushed, spines twisted. He lost track of how many prayers he sent skyward, how many blessings he spoke over the dead. Faced with such despair, they all sounded hollow.
After the first few hours, he could no longer even feel rage. Despair shoved everything else aside.
He waited for numbness to overtake him—longed for numbness to overtake him—but it never did. Every corpse wounded him. Every weeping mother or stunned father or screaming child cut him to the quick.
Holding a dead infant in his arms, Cullen could only weep. Maker, preserve us.
The Maker was silent. Silent as the babe. Cullen almost hated Him for that. The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying?
Early on, he stripped himself of his heavy plate, leaving it in a pile next to yet another destroyed house. Even with that weight gone, he grew weary. His limbs felt made of lead, of stone, but still he lifted them. He helped half a dozen merchants lift a broken beam in order to pull free the pregnant woman trapped beneath. He carried children to the Rose, followed by their weary, dazed parents. Once he came upon a dog digging and whining at a pile of stones, and when he helped pull them away he found a young man curled beneath, wounded but alive. The dog licked his hand.
Cullen dug countless corpses from the rubble, and he soothed their kin as best he knew how. He feared it was not well enough. All the faces blurred together, a mosaic of grief and heartbreak and despair. Wounds and broken bones. Hands and feet and blood and death. He remembered the little corpses under their white sheets. He did not want to imagine how many white sheets the dead of Kirkwall would require.
"Knight-Commander," one of his templars pleaded, after an hour or a day or a lifetime, "you must rest."
"I am not weary," he lied.
"You've been out here a night and a day, Knight-Commander. You must—"
"No," he demurred. "Soon. Not yet."
Hours and faces and pleas might blur before him, but when he saved another child he was glad he was not asleep in Templar Hall.
He was doubly glad when he turned a corner and found Hawke in the Hightown marketplace, backed against a wall, hands raised helplessly. An angry crowd screamed all around her and Cullen shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, trying to make sense of what he saw. Hawke's eyes met his across the courtyard. Blood trickled down her face from a cut to her scalp, and her clothing was smeared with filth the crowd had thrown.
It was then he noticed she was not wearing armor, and she was not armed. Her ever-present bow was nowhere to be seen, and her clothes were wool and linen with not even a protective scrap of leather.
As he watched, a bystander threw another stone; it bounced off her shoulder and she winced, lowering her face.
She looked defeated. The woman who slew the Arishok in single combat, defeated. The woman who'd fearlessly faced mad Meredith, defeated. The world she knew has ended. The world we all knew is ended.
"What is the meaning of this?" cried a voice he knew. He thought, at first, it was one of his templars, but when he scanned the crowd he saw the guard-captain's tell-tale hair, bright as the absent sun. Aveline was flanked by several of her guardsmen, and none of them had made the mistake of venturing out unarmed.
"It's her fault," shouted one of the rock-throwers. "All of this! My mother's dead, and my son. Where was the Champion of Kirkwall for them?"
"There has been enough bloodshed," Aveline snapped, her fierce gaze scanning the crowd. Those eyes narrowed when she saw him.
"Easy enough for you to say," cried another. "You're one of hers. You've always been one of hers."
"I'm not," Cullen replied, raising his voice. Am I not? The words cut through the air, leaving silence in their wake. "You have seen me here toiling. I have helped rescue your families. You know me. But I would not see the Champion harmed."
Straightening his tired shoulders and stiffening his aching back, Cullen strode through the crowd as though he expected them to part, and part they did. Aveline's gaze on him was still wary, and the naked steel in her hand glinted, promising retribution if he betrayed them. When Cullen reached Hawke's side he saw tears on her face. He wondered if she knew she was weeping.
"I only wanted to help," she whispered without looking at him. "I wanted to… I wanted to do something."
"Go home," he said softly. She seemed so much smaller without her armor and her weapons, stripped of the charisma she'd always had before. Almost frail. Defeat rounded her shoulders, and he did not want to name the ghosts he saw wandering in her eyes. The woman who'd once—when near-mortally wounded—kept him from dragging her sister to the Gallows, defeated.
"Home," she repeated without inflection, her voice numb. It was wrong. Hawke had always met Meredith barb for barb, had kept her wit and her defiance against all odds. Broken, he thought. What will become of us now? "Cullen, I didn't know. I only… I only want to help."
"And they only want someone to blame. You're here. He's not. Go home, Hawke. Please. I… I can't protect you and do my duty to the city at the same time."
Aveline drew near. Her soldiers were dispersing the crowd. "Hawke?" the guard-captain asked. A world of questions lived in the single word.
"Our mistakes make us who we are," Hawke said quietly, staring at the stones beneath her feet. "I didn't know." Clearly as startled as he by Hawke's transformation, Aveline lowered her guard enough to exchange a startled glance with him.
"Hawke?" Aveline repeated. "Are you—?"
Hawke interrupted, "I have to go home. Walk with me, Knight-Captain?" Her lips twisted in a painful smile. "No. Knight-Commander, now. I know that."
Hurt tinged Aveline's face for a moment, but by the time Hawke looked up none of it remained. "I'll report to you later, Hawke," she said. "This is temporary. When we find the mage—"
"You won't," Hawke replied. She sounded so sad. So sad and so lost. The woman who'd clawed her way from refugee to Champion of Kirkwall by sheer bloody force of will, defeated. "He's gone. Help the ones he hurt. That's all you can do now. That's all any of us can do."
Aveline looked startled, but didn't protest further.
Cullen nodded at the guard-captain before offering Hawke his arm. He was surprised when she accepted it, and even more surprised when she leaned into him. Her steps were slow and uneven; she moved like an old woman. After a few minutes she said, "It needs to be you, Cullen."
"Hawke?"
"I thought it could be me, but it can't. I see that now. It needs to be you."
He frowned, concerned, peering more closely at the cut to her head. It didn't look deep, but head wounds were notoriously tricky. "Are you unwell, Hawke?"
"Oh, I'm well enough," she retorted, and the cruelty in her voice was all turned inward. "I'm alive. My house is whole. My sister survived. No wonder they hate me." Her eyes flickered up to meet his. The shadows of exhaustion beneath them were almost black in the smoke-choked light. "Kirkwall needs an advocate. They won't let it be me. It has to be you."
No, he thought. I will not be another Meredith. Do not give me this weight to bear. You do not know what you ask. "Give it time, Hawke. Their wounds are fresh. Soon they'll realize what you did to save them."
She shook her head and said nothing. When they reached her estate, she looked up at him again and he thought he saw a hint of something like her old spirit in her eyes. The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying? "You look tired, Cullen. Kirkwall needs you strong. Get some rest."
For a moment, a heartbeat, he thought she was going to throw her arms around him. I knew an Amell once. Then she shook her head and dashed into her house, slamming the door shut behind her.
But Cullen didn't go back to Templar Hall. He did consider it. He made it as far as the steps to Lowtown before a child waylaid him, asking him for help locating his mother, and sleep seemed an indulgence in light of the boy's distress.
Without the reliability of the sun to inform him, Cullen had no idea how much time had passed when he finally succumbed to exhaustion. It was Ser Hugh who found him and shook him awake; Cullen was embarrassed to realize he'd fallen asleep leaning against the wall of someone's broken home.
"Come with me, Knight-Commander, ser," Hugh insisted.
Cullen began to protest, but Hugh shook his head firmly. "You're exhausted, ser. You've been out here two nights and most of two days. Rest a bit. You need to rest."
"I was resting."
Hugh almost smiled. "They'll have a bed for you at the Rose, ser. With pillows instead of stones."
Cullen knew he was exhausted when he was too tired to protest sleeping beneath a brothel's roof. All his weariness disappeared, however, the instant he stepped into The Blooming Rose and sensed magic at work. When he attempted to summon the will necessary for a smite, he found only the hollowness of his exhaustion. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the source. Highborn survivors lay on pallets next to merchants, and merchants lay next to servants. Madam Lusine presided over all. A child darted past her and she paused to ruffle his hair. Neither of them was the source of the power he felt, however, so he quickly looked away.
There. It was nothing so obvious as a staff and a rain of fire, but he saw it nonetheless: a cloaked and hooded figure bent over one of the pallets, half-hidden hands glowing a tell-tale silvery blue.
Healing magic. He didn't begrudge the survivors their healing, but the cloak… if it was Anders beneath it, all the healing in the world would not save the man from justice.
Denied his templar skills, Cullen crossed the room as quickly as he could, weaving through the crowd. He heard Hugh call out behind him, but before the young templar could catch up Cullen grabbed the healer's shoulder and wrenched him around. The healer fell with a grunt, nearly landing on his patient.
But the healer was not a him. Amelle Hawke glared up at Cullen, her green eyes filled with all the fire and defiance her elder sister had lacked in the Hightown marketplace. "Hello to you, too, Knight-Captain," she said, drawing herself to her knees and then rising to her feet, brushing the wrinkles from her dress and adjusting the hood of her cloak. She arched an eyebrow. "Maker. You look like you haven't slept in days."
He frowned. "What are you doing here?"
The other eyebrow joined the first. "I should think it's pretty self-evident."
Hugh caught up to him then, breathless and gasping. "Knight-Commander, would you have me—"
"I would have you remain silent for the moment, Ser Hugh. And I would have you find me something to eat, if you would."
"But she—"
"I know who she is." I know what she is. I knew an Amell once. He saw her brow furrow, and wondered if she'd noted the change in his rank.
The patient at their feet groaned, and Amelle twisted her hands into the fabric of her skirt. The moment Hugh departed, Cullen said, "As you were, Mistress Hawke."
"As I—oh." She gave him a considering look. "It'll only be a moment. Then I'll—"
"Join me for something to eat," he interjected firmly. "You look as bad as I feel, and I feel wretched."
Amelle snorted, dropping back to her knees beside the wounded man. She sent Cullen another sideways glance and then turned her body slightly, so her glowing hands would be hidden from as much of the room as possible. The patient groaned once and then sighed his relief, and Amelle rose to her feet again.
"You shouldn't be here," Cullen said.
"Kirkwall needs healers. They have me. I'm… being discreet."
Cullen shook his head. Madam Lusine had a table cleared, and Ser Hugh brought food. It was only bread and cheese, but Cullen ate as if he hadn't eaten in days.
Which he hadn't, come to think of it. Amelle watched him, chewing her own piece of bread much more sedately, her expression rather more bemused than afraid.
"Not discreet enough," Cullen said. "I sensed your magic right away, and Kirkwall is crawling with templars just as able as I am. Ser Hugh would have you in the Gallows without thinking twice. They all would. It's their duty."
Amelle nodded. "I know. But… look at these people, Knight-Capt-um, Knight-Commander. They need me."
Cullen scowled at the honorific. "Your sister needs you, too. Things are mad, Amelle. I cannot ask the templars to make an exception for you, and I cannot promise to keep you safe."
Amelle glanced down at the bread in her hand and frowned. "I know."
"But you're still going to take the risk?"
"I have to. I will be discreet. Madam Lusine knows who I am—"
"Of course she does."
"—And she can tell me if there are templars here before I enter." Amelle almost smiled. "I thought healing in the brothel would be safe, Knight-Commander. I must admit this is rather the last place I expected to find you or your brethren."
"As I said, things are mad. You cannot assume—"
"I know."
They ate in silence a while longer, almost companionable. I have seen firsthand how templars' trust and leniency can be rewarded. "Amelle, your sister—"
"I know," she repeated, her voice heavy with sorrow. Sorrow and understanding. "I know that most of all." Then she reached across the table and touched the back of his hand, her fingertips tentative against his bare skin. He didn't flinch, but he felt a faint heat rise in his cheeks. A moment later that heat was followed by the alien rush of magic as it swept through him, leaving strength and wakefulness and rejuvenation in its wake.
"You should have saved that for someone who needed it," he admonished.
Her grin was almost impish, so pleased was she with herself. "Oh, I did, I assure you."
He couldn't quite bring himself to argue with her.
Amelle rose to her feet and pulled the hood over her hair once again. The cloak, he noticed, was too long. He imagined she'd pilfered it from her sister. Her poor sister. Champion, defeated. Broken. Grudgingly, he had to admit the cloak was more discreet than a robe and a staff.
"Good evening, Knight-Commander," she said. "I would say 'see you soon' except to see you soon would likely mean I was being indiscreet. And neither of us wants that."
He did smile at that, just slightly. "Only acting Knight-Commander," he corrected. "Good evening, Mistress Hawke."
One or two of the survivors reached out to touch Amelle's hand or the hem of her cloak as she passed; she paused and spoke to each of them. True to her word, she was discreet. No hint of magic clung to her. Not even the ghost of power betrayed her. Hope. She gives them hope. At the door she turned, and he thought he saw her smile beneath the shadowed cowl.
You'll have to go through me, he thought, but wasn't sure just whom the thought was directed at. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. I knew an Amell once. His reaction was too sudden, too fierce, too strong, and he was all but certain it wasn't meant for the apostate mage.
I am acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. And you will have to go through me.
